


Rattle Your Bones (Heh, you said bone)

by rocketpool



Category: Leverage, Leverage/Supernatural/XMen, Supernatural, X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009)
Genre: M/M, Multi, cross-posted from LJ, porntastic, what it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thief, a hunter, and a retrieval specialist walk into a museum...What did you think was going to happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rattle Your Bones (Heh, you said bone)

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://ladywinchester.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladywinchester**](http://ladywinchester.livejournal.com/), who has been quite patient and bribed me quite well. I hope you enjoy it, darlin', especially since it's 2k words more than anticipated. :grins: Really, this story is what it says on the tin. Thanks again to my darling [](http://raggedy-edge.livejournal.com/profile)[**raggedy_edge**](http://raggedy-edge.livejournal.com/) for the beta. ♥

 

  
If the museum curator had been paying attention… well. There’s a lot that might be said for if the curator had been paying attention. She might not have struggled so hard to win Lot #61236 at auction, given the depressingly violent (and exceptionally recent) history of a few of its items. Furthermore she might have debated putting those items on display, given the turbulence the lot faced during shipping and the fact that one of her employees committed suicide after staring at one of them for three hours without actually working. Had she been paying attention she might have realized that she’d inadvertently made contacts with people that could handle that sort of thing with no loss to the museum.

But just now, as she smoothes her skirt and fidgets with her jacket cuffs, and smiles from the entryway to the exhibit? She just might have realized that there are three thieves contemplating the jewelry box. At the very least, she would have found it suspicious that three attractive, predatory young men flirted with her on the way in, standing close to her as though they’re intimate.

Hell, she would have noticed that her badge, museum keys, and cheat sheet of security codes were missing.

…Ok, so it’s possible if she’d been paying attention she would have remembered she’s not supposed to even _have_ a cheat sheet, but honestly, at this point that’s the least of her sins.

The thieves, at least, recognize one another, if only by reputation, near misses, and indistinct photos from dossiers: one of the foremost retrieval specialists in the western world (with quite a nasty reputation in the east), a world renown thief from the Guild in New Orleans (with an interesting rumor about abilities he may or may not have), and the man with the corner on a very specific niche market in North America (who may or may not have started the apocalypse, or ended it, depending on who you talk to and presuming you believe in that sort of thing). They do not, of course, openly acknowledge one another, but they each know the others are aware of them. It’s little things, instinct really.

It would be different if there wasn’t a crowd, if the museum was closed. It would have been a race, or a pissing contest, or both. As it is they’re all trying to portray one-up-manship without even looking at each other directly.

None of them are surprised to find the other two there when they break into the exhibit in the smallest hours of the morning.

~~~

“You gotta be shitting me,” Dean says. He’s on one side of the exhibit, staring straight down to the other side at one Eliot Spencer. Who, of course, doesn’t seem like he’s gonna give up on their mutual prize any time soon. And every step he takes forward Spencer matches, eyes sharp and calculating and _fuck_ but Dean did _not_ need this. “You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here buddy.”

Before Spencer can say anything in return, they both turn sharply, more out of instinct than actually hearing anything. Dean doesn’t want to think about how LeBeau landed where he is.

“ _Mes amis_ ,” is all he says, and Christ does Dean hate that Cajun shit. And the way he smirks, like he knows something they don’t. Dean’s pretty sure the kid doesn’t know what he knows. Spencer either. Which is, of course, the problem with stealing cursed artifacts.

Dean’s not even exactly sure what’s attached itself to the jewelry box. He thinks it might be a ghost. A really, really pissed off ghost, if not more than one of the suckers. But there was no knowing for sure, not yet, and Dean was not looking forward to dealing with whatever the hell was about to happen with a couple of amateurs, no matter how good they might be at fighting.

“We should be quick, I think,” LeBeau murmurs, glancing at his watch.

“What, you wanna do this by Rochambo or what?” Dean really hopes the answer is yes. LeBeau’s more likely to be sneaky, but he’s pretty sure Spencer would just put his face in and be done with it, especially when he growls like that. But LeBeau just rolls his eyes.

“ _Non_ , but I t’ink it needs taking care of, do you no—”

“Whatever,” Spencer growls. Which is just about all the warning they get before Spencer’s striding straight for the display. He’s fast, and Bobby was right about the bastard being professional because he’s obviously already studied whatever security is in place, and is already disabling it.

“No, don’t touch it!” Dean jogs forward, grabbing Spencer’s arm before he can reach for the damn thing. It earns him a solid right hook, another hit that Dean barely manages to block, and being thrown backward onto his ass. “Fuck me…”

“No time.” LeBeau winks at him. _Winks_. For a second Dean thinks he’s gonna have a go at Spencer or the jewelry box next, but the clock down the way chimes twice. The clock made of brass and ivory, like the jewelry box. The clock Dean was pretty freaking sure was _broken_.

Dean catches a flicker at the edge of his vision and something, _someone_ , is lifting Spencer up by the throat. Something Spencer can’t hit. Dean blinks, and barely, just barely… it’s a man, big and ugly and face covered in blood. Dean’s on his feet, drawing the cold iron dagger from his boot and pushing it through the ghost in one smooth motion. There’s a deep, angry noise, and Spencer falls. The hitter sputters a few curses, but the hair on the back of Dean’s neck is lifting and he turns. He gets a brief glimpse of a woman, eyes flat and dead, gashes in her throat and chest, before she’s grabbing at him, before he’s sliding cold iron through flesh that’s not there.

“Dammit Sam,” he says more to himself than anything, and Dean promises himself that if he gets out of this in one piece he’s going to punch his brother in the face and not feel bad about it. He really could’ve used the back up tonight. And the Latin. He turns, ostensibly to give Spencer a hand up, but he catches a face full of ghost instead, this time a black man that’d give a zombie a run for his money. It throws him backward. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He rolls to his feet just in time to see LeBeau swinging a small metal staff, twirling it in his hands like he’s trying to give Jackie Chan a run for his money. Ghost number three and his shorter, bloodier friend that looked like he was ready to bash Eliot’s face in with the manacles on his hands dissipate in a hiss of almost screams.

“What the _fuck_?” Spencer demands just as Dean says, “Ain’t gonna take long to re-corporealize.”

“ _Merde! De cours_ , it is Samuel that does de research.” LeBeau seems annoyed by that, and Dean wants to know when the fuck a thief learned anything about his brother. “Buy me time, _oui_?” And then he stalks toward an open area of floor, muttering something that might be _m'emmerdes_.

“For what?” Spencer asks, then ducks and catches something out of the air one handed. Dean doesn’t know which is creepier, Spencer’s spatial awareness, or the fact that LeBeau threw brass knuckles set with cold iron — and knows that he even _needs_ cold iron. “Seriously? Seriously. There’s something wrong with you people.”

“Yeah, yeah, just put that on and hit things.” The hair on Dean’s arms start to lift, and this time Spencer must feel it too because his stance changes. And now that he’s got half a clue, Spencer is fast, faster than Dean and maybe faster than LeBeau. Not that it keeps him from being thrown across the room and into another display. The fuckers came back twice as pissed as before.

And Christ but there really are a lot of them. Dean _had_ actually done research, but hadn’t turned up anything that’d suggest a goddamn _legion_ of ghosts. LeBeau better know what the hell he’s doing… The thought is broken off by realizing that a pair of ghosts, a couple of men which had obviously been slaves and could give Ferrigno’s Hulk a run for his money, were about to tip over a very large, very fragile display onto Eliot.

Dean has to move fast, and he isn’t even sure what the hell he’s going to do until he’s doing it. In retrospect he’s lucky that the bits from one of the other exhibits had cold iron in it, cos otherwise that would have amounted to one of the stupidest moves he’s made since that thing with Sammy in Portland when they were kids. …Ok, so maybe he’s done some stupider shit. But this’d be up there. Either way, he’s still only managing to yank Spencer out of the way just before there’s glass shattering where his head used to be.

“That’s two y’owe me, junior.” Dean smirks at him, but Spencer just gives him a look like he’s nuts.

There’s no time for pop culture insults, though. The fugly sons of bitches have caught on to the fact that LeBeau is swinging around some mojo, so he and Spencer are working their asses off to keep them from messing with the thin circle of salt and goofer dust protecting him as he works over whatever the hell he’s got in there.

“Get de box!” he yells. “Keep hold of de bottom very tight. Can’t let _la vieille bique_ get away wit’ even a little, _comprend_?”

Yeah, well, easier said than fuckin’ done, right? Although it helps that it seems like the ghosts can’t actually touch the box. Thank whoever’s up there for the little shit. Well. Until one of them is bright enough to drag the pillar across the room, at least. Because bitchy, angry ghosts aren’t bad enough, they’ve got to have clever ones too?

They manage, though it takes some doing. And breaking. And lots of ducking. Not that Dean didn’t catch a painting with his face, but he’s been hit in the face with worse. And getting the box back to where LeBeau has built his circle is like trying out for the varsity football team when you’re still in freaking elementary school. Spencer passes it to Dean and rolls, a punch dispersing the ghost that nearly tackled them both. Dean hands it off to LeBeau, one side of the circle to the other, their fingers brushing, and Dean shivers.

Fucking magic.

Dean’s not familiar with whatever the hell it is LeBeau is doing, but between making good use of that cold iron staff the Cajun had used before and body blocking a statue, he has picked up on one fact. The jewelry box had a false bottom, and inside? Bones. Tiny bones. Finger bones, he thinks. Christ he hopes those are all adult phalanges. LeBeau starts chanting, something old that Dean can’t make out, and the walls start shaking, rattling the windows. The ground gets in on the game, like an earthquake, the debris rattling and sliding across the floor, until there’s a flash and a pop, like an intake of breath.

There’s the lingering smell of chickory, and the room is quiet.

LeBeau smirks up at them as he folds the jewelry box into a cloth and slides it into a bag. “Dis is how it’s done, no?”

Right. Like it’s ever that easy. (Like Dean trusts anyone else do it right.)

~~~

Going out for drinks after is less for the celebration of a job well done, and more no one wanting to let the others out of sight. At least, as far as Eliot is concerned anyway. He thinks maybe Winchester’s got the same idea, the way he keeps his eyes on them and on the sack with the box, and the way his smile never reaches his eyes. Usually.

Funny what a little whiskey can do.

LeBeau, on the other hand, don’t seem to remember that he’s supposed to be playing a good game of keep-away, except on the sly. The bastard could give Soph a run for her money, hands down (well, before she ate him for lunch anyway) and it bothers Eliot he can’t put a pin in what the man’s after. Sure as hell isn’t just making off with the jewelry box, or he’d have made off with it by now.

“Cos it’s _clean_ now, _cher_.” LeBeau says it with enough conviction to satisfy Eliot, but Dean doesn’t seem to trust him. Not that Eliot blames him, but he’s been in the game long enough to recognize when a man knows what’s what with weird shit. Given Winchester’s reputation, maybe he’s tetchy from his toes being stepped on. Eliot’s never had much cause to worry about it before, not like tonight; normally he’s got enough intel to avoid jobs like this altogether.

“Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t take you at your word. Besides, if you’ve got the kinda mojo to pull off that purification, how do I know you didn’t just put the ghosts on ice long enough to use the box yourself?”

A legitimate point. Mostly. “Cos he wouldn’t have let you near it in the first place.” Eliot leaves off the _dumbass_ part. Part of the Winchester reputation also includes stubbornness and not thinking things through to their conclusion, after all. Winchester pouts (though Eliot’s sure the kid thinks it’s a scowl) and throws back another shot of whiskey. “Question is what he’s still doin’ here.”

LeBeau blinks, giving him wide eyes that to others may actually pass for innocent. “ _Moi_?” Eliot and Winchester give him the same skeptical look that ain’t too far off from a threat, and LeBeau grins. “Ever consider mebbe I jus’ like you bot’?”

Winchester chokes on his next swallow of whiskey. Eliot raises an eyebrow, considering. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? “You mean t’tell me yer tryin’ to scratch an itch?” Winchester chokes again. Seriously, does the man just never get laid or what?

LeBeau just shrugs, but it’s fluid. Shrugs really should _not_ be that sensual.

Eliot takes his shot, never taking his eyes off of LeBeau. He doesn’t miss the way LeBeau and Winchester watch him swallow either. Maybe LeBeau can make a shrug look good, but no one makes an exit like Eliot. He slams the shot glass down onto the tabletop, rim down, stands and grabs the bottle of whiskey off Winchester.

“Hey!”

Eliot just arches an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder. “Ain’t like we can do that here.” He keeps walking right on out, but he wishes he could have seen the face Winchester’s making to go with that sound. LeBeau chuckles, already just behind him. Probably cos Winchester’s scrambling to catch up.

Eliot leads them back to his motel room. The fact that the bar was in proximity to his motel hadn’t slipped his attention either, but it could be coincidence. It _could_ just be that they have the same sort of location preferences. Quite frankly, as long as no one’s fucked with his room, he doesn’t give a damn. Before he gets to his door, he does a mental calculation on what he’s left out and where his weapons are stashed, so that by the time he’s unlocking the door he’s already sure there can’t be trouble. Well. Not any more trouble than what the two men behind him would be bringing anyway.

Judging from the mischievous expression LeBeau’s got, that’s probably more than Eliot would’ve originally given credit for. They share a look, and as soon as Winchester’s through the door, they slam it shut and pin him. Eliot goes to work on the plaid while LeBeau is already on his knees working at his belt.

“What the f—”

That’s as far as Eliot lets him get before kissing him, more to buy himself time to shrug out of his own jacket and button up than anything else. Still, he’s gotta give Winchester credit, once his body’s caught on to the program he’s an amazing kisser. He starts trying to pull off Eliot’s undershirt at the same time Eliot’s trying to pull off his, only to break off in a low moan and tip his head back against the door. Eliot looks down and smirks when he sees Remy’s already got the kid’s jeans pulled down to his knees and is sucking just the tip of his cock.

Which, yeah. All of them have got too many clothes on. Eliot pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before he pulls Winchester’s off too. He kisses him again, dragging a thumb over Winchester’s nipple just for the way his hips buck a little and make LeBeau grunt. Winchester finally gets his brain to catch up with the rest of him, reaching past LeBeau to unlatch Eliot’s belt and start on his fly. And then he pushes the jeans out of the way just far enough to pull Eliot’s dick free and strokes him one handed, fingers playing circles on Eliot’s skin.

It’s good. _Damn_ good, and Christ but it’s been a while. Longer than Eliot would have liked, if he’s honest about it. He rewards him with a growl, and moves to nip and bite at his jaw. Which is apparently encouraging, except when LeBeau short circuits the kid’s brain, and Winchester’s hand stutters, his other hand tangling in LeBeau’s hair. Winchester’s grip stays firm though, so Eliot just thrusts against him, fucking into the kid’s hand while he works a mark into his neck.

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” The thread of neediness in Winchester’s voice burns in Eliot’s veins. It must do the same to LeBeau because he starts humming. Another glance proves the Cajun’s got his own dick in his hand.

“Jesus,” Eliot growls. Cos this? This just ain’t long enough. He puts a hand on Winchester’s hand, the one buried in LeBeau’s hair, and tilts LeBeau’s head back until the cock slips from his mouth. “Not like this. Clothes off. Bed. Now.”

Not that getting there is easy. None of them want to stop touching for things as simple as removing boots or pants. The three of them nearly end up toppling to the floor trying to get LeBeau out of everything at once. But they manage, and LeBeau’s even rustled up lube and condoms from somewhere. It’s no surprise that leads directly to wrestling over who’ll be where.

Eliot already knows how it’ll shake out in the end. LeBeau will be in the middle, considering how he can’t seem to keep his hands off anyone, like he can’t make up his mind which to focus on. Winchester will end up on bottom, not because he wouldn’t rather be somewhere else, but because Eliot and LeBeau are much more determined and are much better fighters. And Eliot? Well. He doesn’t let people top him that he doesn’t trust implicitly. But this is the fun part, getting Winchester’s fight up, hearing him moan and growl like it’s fighting words. Letting LeBeau flip Eliot onto his back to suck a nipple, only for Winchester to reach between them and stroke them both together. Trapping Winchester between them both so LeBeau could start to lick him open, Winchester’s head dipping to lick and suck Eliot’s cock.

He can feel the moment LeBeau slides a finger inside of Winchester. The second elicits a moan that Eliot can feel in his bones, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to fist a hand in Winchester’s hair just to hold him where he is and fuck his mouth til he can’t see straight. A third finger, and Winchester lifts his head, panting hard against Eliot’s hip.

Eliot watches them for a long moment, the way Winchester’s back arcs a little when LeBeau curls his fingers and the way LeBeau stares back at Eliot through thick lashes, and then slides off the bed. Winchester turns a little, reaching for him, and LeBeau doesn’t argue when Eliot pushes the kid onto his back. Eliot tears one of the condoms wrappers open, standing almost behind LeBeau as he slides it over the man’s cock. The Cajun settles himself between Winchester’s legs, petting over his thighs until Winchester lifts himself. Winchester’s head tips back, his lips parting, as LeBeau presses against him and manages to offer his own ass to Eliot at the same time.

The bastard even hands back the lube. Eliot can see Winchester pushing himself up onto his elbows so he can nip at whichever bits of LeBeau he can reach, finally distracting the man into kissing him. In Eliot’s opinion it’s hot, but it’s also got far too much coherent thought involved. He slicks a finger and parts LeBeau’s cheeks, teasing over the hole before pressing in slowly. LeBeau moans, echoed by Winchester’s whimper of loss because LeBeau leans back against Eliot’s hand, pulling himself out.

Eliot smirks, working his finger in and out, far too pleased by the rippling reaction. He pulls his hand away only long enough to add more lube, to add a second finger. He thrusts and curls and scissors them, riling LeBeau up without ever quite hitting that spot or letting LeBeau fuck Winchester. Eliot strokes himself, tearing open a new condom for himself as his patience wears thin. Because watching this —watching LeBeau and Winchester almost kissing but too caught up in what they’re _almost_ doing, watching Winchester’s fingers digging into LeBeau’s shoulders, watching LeBeau’s hips twitch in abortive thrusts— watching this is almost too much.

He pulls his hand away now and thrusts in, letting LeBeau take as much of his cock as he dared before putting a hand on his hip and pushing, thrusting LeBeau in turn into Winchester. Eliot waits a moment, lets everyone breathe, and presses in farther.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” LeBeau says, his voice barely more than air. There’s a moment while everyone adjusts, panting, a calm before the storm.

“Please,” Winchester manages at last, digging his heels into the bed to press back up into LeBeau, his head tipping back as his mouth works for words almost obscenely. “ _Fuck_ , just move…”

Eliot obliges him, and LeBeau after him. It doesn’t take long for them to find their rhythm, Eliot pushing LeBeau into Winchester, Winchester rising to meet him, LeBeau fucking himself back into Eliot. It’s an undulating wave of pleasure that leaves no room for words, for creative maneuvering, almost self perpetuating and completely electric. And then LeBeau does something with his hips, shifting the angle just a little, just enough. Winchester groans on every thrust, until it’s nothing but an unintelligible whine.

It’s no surprise the kid breaks first, shouting and gasping and painting himself with come. LeBeau cusses, something in Cajun that Eliot can’t think to translate cos LeBeau is tightening around him. Tightening and still moving, still fucking himself between Eliot and Winchester like he might make the kid come a second time on willpower alone. The thought is enough to pull Eliot’s orgasm from him, ripping it up from his toes through his core hard enough to make the world white out a little.

When he comes back to himself LeBeau has finally stopped moving. They both take a second to breathe before pulling away from each other just enough to collapse on the bed beside Winchester. They’ll need to clean up, and at some point Eliot will have to kick the others out. Assuming, of course, they don’t go for round two.

Eliot smirks to himself. Round two sounds like a good plan.

~~~

Remy sleeps lightly, especially if he’s not sleeping alone. Part of it is survival instinct, sure, but mostly it’s just his damn abilities. (Calling it spatial awareness and kinetic control is an unfortunate understatement, but easier than actually explaining anything to anyone.) Sleeping with two other thieves and fighters leaves him on guard, though. Mostly.

Both other men have their own sort of honor. Unquestionably they can both be, shall we say, real bastards, and are certainly thieves. But they do not pick fights which are unnecessary and _une bête peu_ , they do not alienate potential allies without due cause. And certainly, the only thing which could cause complications now is Madame du Deffand’s jewelry box. Dean Winchester had wanted it because of the _vieille sorcière_ that had stolen it, passing it on from daughter to daughter, cursed and gathering darkness. But Spencer? Remy is quite sure that he was hired for the historical piece.

Honestly, Remy had just been curious what had attracted the other two to the area. It was not something to be passed up, _n’est-ce pas_? Opportunities like this do not often present themselves naturally.

He’s awake the moment Spencer shifts enough to begin disentangling himself from Winchester. But Remy doesn’t move, doesn’t even open his eyes while Spencer slips out of bed and begins gathering his clothes and his things. He’s actually impressed with how quietly the other man can move without being a mutant; it’s no wonder he’s got the reputation he does. It may just be enough to make Remy consider interfering in another one of his jobs.

He can hear Spencer take the jewelry box and check it over before putting it into a different bag. The door opens, barely creaking, and clicks shut. And so, that’s that. The man will probably check out of the room as well. Only a matter of time, then, until room service shows up. Remy considers for just a moment whether or not he should make the best of his morning with Dean.

He slips out of the bed instead, letting Dean sleep. Remy prides himself on making no noise whatsoever getting dressed again —he’s got Logan to thank for that— and steps out of the room as well. Down the hall he can see the maid beginning her rounds. She doesn’t see him, but even if she had she would not have been able to catch the mischievous grin lighting up his eyes.

Oh yes. He’ll have to do this again. He’s even got just the thing in mind…  



End file.
